


Preconstruct

by gildedfrost



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Digital Art, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Identity, Intrusive Thoughts, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Suicide, Post-Canon, no actual death though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25127713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildedfrost/pseuds/gildedfrost
Summary: He sits atop the table in the park where Hank had sat back in November and looks out across the water. The weather is warm and clear, but he can still see snowflakes dancing in his vision and piling on the ground in a mixture of predictive simulation and fragmented memory. If he looks toward the trees, his mind provides an overlay of red and yellow, leaves falling and molding on the ground. It’s easier to look out at a city that never changes.Connor doesn’t know the answer to the question Hank asked that night, but he thinks there would be nothing. There is nothing in between shutdown and upload, nothing before his existence, and certainly there will be nothing after. Thus he could point the finger at Hank, say that shooting him in the head that night was cruel regardless of his inebriation, when he knew at the time that androids could be alive and could die. Coming back is never the same.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38
Collections: New ERA Discord: Reverse Big Bang





	Preconstruct

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the New ERA birthday reverse big bang! Art by [WhimsicalGoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalGoat/pseuds/WhimsicalGoat) ([tumblr](https://whimsicalgoat.tumblr.com/))

The summer evening is warm and humid after a late storm, the scent of petrichor heavy in the air and the streets glistening in the lamplight. It’s dark, but the city hums with its usual nighttime activity. Across the river, Windsor is bright with the lights from buildings and cars. It’s silent from this distance but no less lively. Plane lights blink across the sky, the stars long since hidden by light pollution.

An audio preconstruction begins to form based on data about Windsor’s nightlife. Connor shuts it down.

He sits atop the table in the park where Hank had sat back in November and looks out across the water. The weather is clear, but he can still see snowflakes dancing in his vision and piling on the ground in a mixture of predictive simulation and fragmented memory. If he looks toward the trees, his mind provides an overlay of red and yellow, leaves falling and molding on the ground. It’s easier to look out at a city that never changes. 

Connor doesn’t know the answer to the question Hank asked that night, but he thinks there would be nothing. There is nothing in between shutdown and upload, nothing before his existence, and certainly there will be nothing after. Thus he could point the finger at Hank, say that shooting him in the head that night was cruel regardless of his inebriation, when he knew at the time that androids could be alive and could die. Coming back is never the same. 

Survival leaves one with scars. He functions suboptimally now. Processes start and stop without his say-so and outside of standard protocols, memory and data are intermittently corrupted, and stimuli that should not be notable end up overclocking his processors. The physical damage of tangible injury and the unforeseen impacts of deviancy both impede his efficiency, functioning, and overall quality of life.

Or, to put it as Hank does: He has PTSD and brain damage. The wording is crass and imprecise, but he has to admit that it’s not strictly incorrect.

The view across the river is a beautiful one, but it’s interrupted, as usual, by his software running on its own. Snow falls gently, piling along the railing in soft mounds, and he feels dread slowly building despite the calm atmosphere.

Then Hank is beside him, drinking from a bottle, and Connor grits his teeth. “You shouldn’t be here, Lieutenant,” he whispers. Hank may not be on the force anymore, but he knows this one is.

The text in his HUD directs him to turn his head but he stubbornly refuses. Still, a wireframe of himself generates, grabbing one of the bottles and smashing it against Hank’s head.

He doesn’t understand why his system detests Hank so much. He no longer has a mission or any directives, and self-assigned ones dissipate only moments later. Amanda and CyberLife’s control over him are long gone. Yet whenever he sees Hank--and whenever he visits this spot--preconstructions of killing the other man manifest in his head. Hank isn’t the only target, but he is the most frequent.

It’s exhausting. Connor isn’t a killer, not anymore. Not since deviating. No matter how deeply it’s embedded into his code, he knows he is a different man than what CyberLife intended, but his purpose haunts him day in and day out.

Hank stands in front of him, pointing the gun at Connor’s forehead. Branching dialogue prompts flash across his eyes, the preconstructions almost too quick to follow, until one of them leads to Hank pointing the gun at his own head.

Connor’s LED spins yellow, blipping red, and he calls Hank. 

“Hey, what’s up?” Hank says, picking up after two rings. He sounds sober. 

“I just wanted to check in on you. How are you?” The body and blood on the ground in front of him lie still for a little too long before fading away.

The next Hank stands in front of him, grasping at the front of Connor’s shirt and pulling him close.

“Same old, you know. At home, with my dog, watching the game. The Gears aren’t doing so hot.”

“Did you eat dinner?” Connor snaps Hank’s neck. The preconstruction reconfigures, then, and instead he wraps his hands around Hank’s neck, squeezing tightly and without mercy.

Hank chuckles. “You’re always on my case, aren’t you? Yeah, I had a salad. A damn good salad, so you might not think it counts, but contrary to what Connor might tell you, I do eat my vegetables.”

Connor winces. The blood covering his palm is bright despite the darkness, red and vibrant. “As long as you’re taking care of yourself, I don’t care what you eat. I’ve seen what’s in your fridge; I can guess what you’ve put in your salad.” 

A gun forms in his hand. When he looks up, Hank is slumped against the fence, blood trailing down from his forehead.

It’s the same spot where Hank shot him. 

Twice.

“You doing alright?”

“Yes. I’m fine.” He turns away from the wireframe, only to see another of Hank stumbling along the sidewalk, gun in hand. “I had some… intrusive thoughts, as you call them. I’m okay now.”

“You know you can come over whenever, right, Sixty? You don’t have to call when you’re feeling bad.”

It isn’t that Connor is afraid of hurting Hank; despite his thoughts, he’s confident in the control he has over his body. But it’s easier to separate the living man from the ghost in his head if he can only see one at a time.

“I needed the fresh air,” Connor says. 

He swallows the bitterness at being called a name that isn’t his, a moniker bestowed upon him that feels little different from ‘Connor 2.’ Even the older Connor appears a little uncomfortable to share a name with him, and Connor bears it, but only because others prefer it. He wouldn’t mind the nickname, but sometimes it’s as if his own name no longer matters, not when there’s already a Connor that came before him.

It hurts more when he’s treated like a copy or a replacement. Hank doesn’t realize when he does it, and the other Connor sometimes falls back on the mindset of the way their line was intended to work, thinking them more alike than they are. Their shared memories are a bond, linking them together like two entities who were once one, but they are both more than that. 

“Have a good night, Hank.” Connor ends the call, disinterested in continuing the conversation while his thoughts are turning this way. He knows who he is, and his friends know damn well he’s different from the other Connor, but it would go miles if that could be acknowledged and if they could see him the same way he saw himself.

He lies back atop the table and stares up at the dark sky. Stars flicker into view, twinkling brightly above him, and he wonders if it wouldn’t have been better to simply shut down for good instead of being repaired, but he isn’t in a hurry to determine the answer.

He has a lifetime to ponder that question, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can find me on Twitter as @gildedfrost (18+), and I spend time in the [New ERA](https://discord.gg/2EKAAz3) DBH Discord server as well! There's a channel on the server to chat about my works :)


End file.
